


good as the day I met you

by FreshBrains



Category: Riverdale (TV 2017)
Genre: Canon Era, Childhood Sweethearts, Community: riverdale_kinkmeme, Cross-posted on Dreamwidth, F/M, Flashbacks, Frottage, M/M, Memories, Multi, POV Fred Andrews, Reunions, Semi-Public Sex, Threesome - F/M/M, Vaginal Fingering
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-04-18
Updated: 2017-04-18
Packaged: 2018-10-20 11:43:18
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,892
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10661883
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FreshBrains/pseuds/FreshBrains
Summary: A good boy, a bad boy. A beautiful girl. But that was years ago.Who are we now?





	good as the day I met you

**Author's Note:**

> For the DW Riverdale Kink Meme [prompt](http://riverdale-kinkmeme.dreamwidth.org/1356.html?thread=38988#cmt38988): _Fred Andrews/FP Jones/Hermione Lodge - At the end of the day, after all the workers have gone home, the three of them have sex in the trailer at the construction site._
> 
> There is an explicit flashback scene when they were in high school, but since it was close to graduation, they are all eighteen.

For the first few weeks, they circle each other, trapped in an endless pattern of two-by-two, of stolen glances, of averted eyes at just the right moment. It’s been like this since they were in high school, since the three of them were stupid kids who thought this sort of thing was _exciting_ rather than what it really was—fucking _terrifying_.

Fred Andrews, the boy next door, the one who never caused trouble—unless his best friend and right-hand man, FP Jones, was pulling the strings. Then you add a girl to the equation, and not just any girl—Hermione Lodge, still Hermione Castilla, brilliant Hermione who was always the dark horse of their graduating class, too beautiful and too sharp for a little town like Riverdale. Always destined for greater things.

A good boy, a bad boy. A beautiful girl. But that was years ago.

 _Who are we now?_ Fred locks the trailer behind them, the key shaking in his hand.

A good boy who turned into a decent man. A bad boy who turned into a _very_ bad man. And a beautiful woman whose life landed her back in the one place she wanted to leave behind.

 “Close the shutters,” FP says. He must be talking to Fred since his eyes are trained on the slope of Hermione’s neck, gaze hungry and plain. It’s a gaze Fred has been on the receiving end of more than once—a thrilling experience. He shuts the shades.

They’re all too old to fuck standing up, especially with three bodies in the mix, so they settle for bundling a pile of dusty Hi-Vis vests and neon orange coats on the floor. Hermione’s high-heeled shoes are placed neatly beneath Fred’s desk; FP sheds his jacket and chucks it _onto_ the desk, sending pens and paperclips scattering to the floor.

“I’ll pick ‘em up later,” FP says, and turns to yank Fred into a bruising kiss, hand fisted in Fred’s collar.

 _No, you won’t_ , Fred thinks, and allows himself to be kissed. He feels Hermione behind him, pulling them both to the floor, and knees hit the carpet hard, even with the pile of cloth beneath them. It feels ridiculous, but in a way, it _is._ Inevitable and ridiculous.

“God, Andrews,” FP says, biting at Fred’s lower lip. His hands frame Fred’s face, fingers smelling like nicotine and exhaust. “Someone hasn’t been loving you right.”

Hermione makes a little noise of disproval from above—she hasn’t come down with them yet. Instead, she circles them slowly while they kiss, watching, observing, as if she’s trying to see the years go by between them, between the two men she left behind in Riverdale. Fred looks over FP’s shoulder and sees Hermione’s bare feet on the carpet, toenails painted dark red.

She lifts a hand to the front of her skirt and presses the heel of her palm against her cunt.

FP pulls back, noticing Fred’s distraction, and cranes his neck towards Hermione. “Are you going to jack off up there, girlie,” he drawls, face flushed and eyes sparkling, “or are you going to come down here and join us?”

“Don’t worry about me,” Hermione says, voice cool. She runs a hand through FP’s hair, messing it up, nails dragging against his scalp. He shudders like a wildcat at her touch. “You two just keep doing what you’re doing.”

When FP looks back at Fred, his gaze is dark. He shoves Fred onto the floor and looms above him, solid and smelling of a hard day’s work, hips already grinding Fred into the floor. Fred’s back complains, but there’s no way he’s moving because of an old ache or pain.

“You’ve both changed so much,” Hermione says, voice gone low and husky with arousal.

FP pulls away from Fred, leaving Fred kiss-swollen and dazed, and sits up on his knees. “Come here,” he says, beckoning Hermione down with an extended arm, and all three of them catch a glimpse of the Serpents tattoo on FP’s forearm. Fred closes his eyes, willing away thoughts of what it would be like to lathe his tongue over the illicit ink. Hermione trails long fingernails over the design, digging them slightly into the skin, then lets go, ignoring FP’s invitation in favor of swooping down in front of him and straddling Fred’s lap, her skirt bunching up around her thighs.

Fred lets his body take over at that point, lets his hands trail up her legs and waist, pulls her down in a deep kiss that ends with her hair tangled in a curtain between them. It’s like kissing a memory, like diving back into the shallow pool of high school love—she tastes the same, smells the same, _feels_ the same in his arms. He’s been wading in this memory for weeks now, relearning the woman he loved years ago, but this is still new for FP. Fred can hear him breathing low and labored as he watches them, and his cock hardens in his jeans.

Hermione props herself up on her elbows and looks down at Fred. Her mouth is wet and kiss-swollen, curled in an amused smile. She sweeps her tangled hair back over one shoulder. “You can touch me, _Forsythe_ ,” she says, FP’s name coming out like poison. “But I don’t want to look at you.”

If FP is offended, he doesn’t show it. He smiles, his devious grin matching Hermione’s in a way that makes Fred shiver, and his jaw tics in the telltale sign he’s reigning in the kind of intensity Fred hasn’t seen in years. “Someday,” FP says quietly, hand trailing down the smooth line of Hermione’s back. “Someday things will be square between us, HL.” He shoves her skirt up, the fabric stretching across her waist, revealing simple dark lace lingerie.

“Maybe,” Hermione says. She kisses down Fred’s neck, teeth grazing skin, and unbuttons his shirt with deft fingers. “But not today.”

For a second, Fred feels left out of something, something important. Despite everything Hermione herself admitted to him about the drive-in property, he also knows FP and Hermione have a history that Fred is not a part of, but that’s okay. They all have their little histories with one another.

Then the word comes out, the word they’ve all been thinking. “Remember,” Hermione says huskily, parting Fred’s shirt, “the first time we did this?” She smooths her hands down his chest and goes for his belt buckle, the tarnished metal a stark contrast against her glossy nails.

“Which time?” FP laughs. He’s holding Hermione by the hips in a firm grip, _directing_ her, helping her to grind down onto Fred.

It’s a valid question. There was Fred and Hermione’s first time, as classic old-school American apple-pie as you can get in Fred’s childhood bedroom, the TV downstairs drowning out their overexcited gasping, their hands shaking and clumsy beneath pleated skirts and letterman jackets. Or maybe she’s thinking of Fred and FP’s first time, which they described to her in detail during a camping trip by Sweetwater River one summer, Alice Cooper asleep and blissfully unaware in the other tent. Maybe she’s thinking of the smell of male hormones and bad cologne mixing together in the bed of Fred’s first pickup, hands scrabbling at backs, feet thumping down on corrugated metal.

 “ _Our_ first time,” she says in a pleasure-tinged sigh, like she can read Fred’s racing mind. “The three of us.” She grasps FP’s hand in hers and brings it to the front of her blouse, guiding his fingers to undo the fussy pearl buttons. His scarred knuckles look beautifully out of place against the fabric.

“Never forgot it,” FP says. He buries his face in the crook of Hermione’s neck, nips at the soft skin. He looks down at Fred; though Fred can’t see his lips, he knows he’s smirking. FP Jones is _always_ smirking.

“You don’t forget something like that,” Fred agrees. He runs his thumb up the inside of Hermione’s thigh, tracing up the soft skin to the edge of her panties. It’s exciting, the dark lace, the pearls in her earlobes, the delicate lines around her mouth. He can hardly believe there was a time when she had a vast scrunchie collection and sang along to Selena songs in her cherry-red Grand Am.

“Tell me,” Hermione says. Her voice is a deep purr, something that resonates throughout the trailer, and over her shoulder, Fred meets FP’s gaze and something darkens between them. “Remind me how good we used to be.”

FP surges against her, lips pressing against Hermione’s shoulder. He tugs at her blouse until it slides off her elbows and he can get to bare skin. “It was in Alice’s trailer.”

Now _that_ , that was a detail Fred didn’t keep carefully filed away. All their memories with Alice were painful ones, especially for FP. But it all comes back to him in a rush of Marlboro smoke and Nine Inch Nails on FP’s obnoxious boombox.

*

Alice, sitting on her kitchen floor, painting her nails. Hermione nursing a cheerleader beer on the ratty sofa in late afternoon sunlight. FP sitting on the floor in front of her in the vee of her legs, watching music videos on mute with a joint between his lips. Fred laying across the couch with his head in Hermione’s lap. Thinking, _she smells so good_. Thinking, _there’s no one who looks at me the way she does._ Thinking, _there’s no one who looks at me the way_ he _does_.

*

“You were wearing a wool skirt, Lodge,” FP says with a laugh. “I remember because it was too hot and the backs of your knees were sweating. He runs a hand down her back, and with a neat flick of his fingers, snaps open the clasp on her bra. Fred pulls it down her arms and tosses it onto the desk where it joins FP’s jacket. He was always good at stuff like that—too smooth for his own good.

*

In the kitchen, Alice attempts to sing along to the music, but she doesn’t know the words. She blows on her nails, the noise smooth and soothing, and Fred catches a glimpse of their reflection in the TV when it fades to black for a commercial.

Hermione wears a red sweater, short-sleeved, and her nipples are hard through the fabric, swollen and begging to be touched. Fred inhales sharply.

Below them, FP’s hand is stroking Hermione’s ankle, fingers grazing the silver anklet Fred got her for her _quinces_. His fingers rise and fall in steady strikes, slowly creeping up her bare leg.

Fred watches, and when the TV brightens into the video for “You Get What You Give,” he closes his eyes.

*

Hermione sighs, head tilted back as FP nips at the curve of her neck. She grasps Fred’s hands and brings them to her breasts; he accepts the invitation greedily, thumbing her nipples, savoring the weight in his palms. Her skin breaks out in goose-bumps when he takes a nipple between his teeth and _tugs_ , gently, enough for her to gasp.

“Her parents were never home,” FP continues. “She asked us if we wanted popcorn.”

*

“Make two bags, Ace,” FP yells, turning his head just enough to see Fred out of the corner of his eye. Then he whispers, loud enough for only the three of them to hear, “Say the word and I’ll get lost.”

“Don’t you dare,” Hermione says fiercely, then glances over the back of the couch to smile at her best friend. She ducks down, her hair tickling Fred’s face. “Stay right there, FP Jones. We want you here.”

That’s what makes Fred reach up to cup her neck and tug her into a fierce kiss, his cock hard in his Levi’s. They kiss messily, sweetly, like teenagers are supposed to. Then he turns and kisses FP the same way, tongues pressing, groans swallowed, like something straight out of a dream.

FP slides two fingers into Fred’s mouth and Fred hollows his cheeks around them, getting them wet. FP’s pupils go dark when he pulls them free with a _pop_ and brings them to the hem of Hermione’s skirt. “Can I, girlie? Come on,” he says, close to begging.

Hermione just spreads her legs, urging Fred to sit up and watch. When he jolts upright, the blood rushes in his head, making him dizzy with excitement and lust when FP’s hand disappears up the grey and red plaid of Hermione’s skirt.

With his other hand, FP presses his palm against the faded crotch of Fred’s jeans, squeezing him hard enough to let him know who’s running the show. If it was anyone else, Fred would hate it, the idea of another guy wanting to get with him and his girl and have it his way. But FP was different than them. He _knew_ things, could be trusted with things.

They trusted him in _this_.

*

The trailer fills with the noise of Hermione’s heavy breathing. Fred slides a hand between her legs and groans when his fingers touch FP’s, slick and sticky with Hermione’s arousal.

“You two were something else,” FP says. He rests his forehead against Hermione’s spine and works his hand harder, finding a rhythm with two fingers in her cunt. “Always managed to fucking surprise me.”

“You too,” Hermione says, and Fred thinks she’s responding to FP until she says, “your fingers too, Fred. I want you both.”

It’ll be this tonight, and it’s more than enough to satisfy them. They’re all still young and single enough to worry about safe sex, and none of them have condoms. If anything, their current lot in life has made them even more careful, and an unplanned pregnancy is enough to destroy them all for good.

*

They time their gasps and moans with the steady popping of stovetop popcorn in the kitchen.

Fred soon replaces FP’s fingers with his mouth, tugging up Alice’s skirt inexpertly to lick at her swollen clit while she guides him with a hand tangled in his hair. FP jerks open Fred’s fly and pulls him out of his boxers, tugging him solid and slow, murmuring against the smooth skin of Hermione’s knee.

“I’m keeping you both here with me,” FP says, breath hot on Fred’s neck. “Make a life with you two.” It’s the most he’s ever said about what will come after graduation, and Fred slams his eyes shut and comes in FP’s hand, tongue pressed against Hermione’s clit. She squeals, long nails raking at Fred’s scalp.

They’re tangled and sweaty, trying desperately to keep quiet, trying not to laugh and moan and _yell_ with how perfect this feels, how _right_.

“Popcorn is done, idiots,” Alice says from the kitchen. She turns off the TV. “Stop fucking on my daddy’s couch and come eat.”

It isn’t the last time they have sex on Alice Cooper’s sofa. But it _is_ the last time the three of them talk about life after high school.

*

Fred starts slow, easing his fingers along FP’s, feeling her tighten in a silken clench around them. Hermione’s breasts bob above him, gleaming with sweat and saliva, and Fred kisses down her sternum, wanting to get lost in that too-familiar smell. She rides their joined hands, easily finding her pleasure, and Fred feels himself harden further as her body writhes on his.

FP swears, body going rigid, and Fred can’t see, but he knows what’s there—FP’s cock grinding against Hermione’s thigh, his come wet on her skin. His belt hangs open, still in the loops; Fred can hear it clack against the floor.

Fred comes with his fingers curled against Hermione’s g-spot, her own orgasm following shortly and spurring him on harder. He hasn’t come in his jeans since college, and he doesn’t miss the feeling, but it’s worth it.

For a few minutes, the trailer is cool and quiet, humming with the mingled sound of their slowing breathing and the hush of shirts being buttoned and jeans being zipped. They don’t look at each other, but they don’t _avoid_ each other. Fred gets on his hands and knees to pick up the paperclips and pins off the floor, but FP stops him with a hand on his shoulder.

“I’ll get them,” he says, pushing his sweaty hair back with one hand. He plucks the supplies up and puts them all back on the desk, neat and tidy, like nothing ever happened. When Hermione is dressed, he takes her shoes and helps her into them so she doesn’t have to bend down again.

Fred sits against the desk. His legs feel heavy and his back is sore from lying on it. Hermione remains standing, purse tucked in the crook of her arm. FP kneels between them, doing up the buttons on his flannel.

“I could use a drink,” FP says, lifting himself onto the desk chair with a grunt. “But my kid wants me off the sauce.”

Hermione nods and opens the mini fridge. She tosses him a water and grabs two cans of Coke for herself and Fred. “Good for you,” she says, leaning against the trailer door. She sounds like she means it.

Fred presses the cool can against the back of his neck. _Like we never ended,_ he thinks, wondering what comes next. _Like we never fucking grew up_.

**Author's Note:**

> Title from "Closer" by Chainsmokers feat. Halsey.


End file.
